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Chapter 15

He was not exactly kicked out of the moving vehicle, but it was a near thing as far as Lestrade was concerned.

The man scowled at the dark car that was rapidly retreating down the street. He then turned around to glare at the front of the gymnasium.

Ughh.

Couldn't John and Sherlock have gone off for a pint like most middle aged men in London?

Lestrade sighed as he hung his head dejectedly. He had already changed from his work things into a pair of sweats that he had not used in forever. His recent attendance at the gym was spotty at best. Being an Inspector had its perks in that he now had young people at his command to chase down suspects.

Why, God? why me?

My life is crap.

He never minded helping Mycroft keep an eye on Sherlock though. He cared for the recalcitrant detective in his own fashion but the bloody theatrics and juvenile sibling rivalry however, he could do without.

With some effort Lestrade picked up his gym bag, and commanded himself to move in a forward direction.

The Inspector entered the building and glanced around, relieved by the gymnasium's relative emptiness. And as if sensing that he was wanted, John swiveled around in his seat where he immediately started to snigger at the older man's appearance.

'The head band is a nice 80's touch', the doctor snorted in between fits of convulsive laughter.

Lestrade grimaced in annoyance. He had assumed they would all be doing something 'sporty' together not just Sherlock, who was in the zone on a treadmill in the back.

'Budge up,' he ordered grumpily and John slid over on the bench to give him some space. The older man dropped his gym bag to the floor as he sank on to the surprisingly comfortable seat. Together, they silently stared at the detective as he steadily ran out his troubles on the exercise machine. If he noticed the new arrival, he wasn't showing it.

'Anything?' Lestrade whispered hopefully, to which John shook his head. Sherlock's memory stayed stubbornly out of reach.

'Well the doc said to give it a few days,' Greg said consolingly to the other man, as the worry lines deepened in his friend's forehead. The inspector gave him a sharp nudge with his shoulder when an extremely attractive young lady walked across their line of vision.

'Well, this is not so bad,' Lestrade muttered happily, as he extended his arms in a relaxing stretch. 'I thought Mycroft brought me here to relieve you as a sparring partner, actually.'

John looked confused and turned to him questioningly. 'Sparring? How do you mean?'

'Sherlock boxes,' Lestrade informed him realizing that the man's flat mate was not in the know, 'well he use to, years ago. This running on the treadmill is something I have never seen.'

'Go on,' the doctor pressed with an astonished look, bending forward eagerly. 'This desire to formally exercise is something new to me too! Boxing, you say?'

Greg smiled wistfully, thinking back to the days when he would hold the punching bag for Sherlock. They had been closer in those times, as Sherlock struggled to simultaneously hone his 'talent' while identifying someone at the Yard, who would be willing to give him a chance at detecting.

Lestrade had been a Sergeant at the time and out of the blue he acquired a skinny shadow; a very tenacious, skinny shadow. Sherlock had chosen him out of all the officers working out in the gym and diligently followed him around with his book bag slung over one shoulder, yelling deductions at him from behind the yellow tape. Then one day it had dawned on Greg that this young man had some pretty decent ideas; better than his at any rate. Lestrade had held up the police tape, Sherlock had nimbly ducked underneath it, and the rest was history as they say.

John was smiling like mad at his story.

'I asked him one day, why me?' Greg continued, 'but he would never answer. He would just smirk in that annoying way he has.'

The doctor clapped his hand on the man's shoulder with a warm look of praise. 'The Yard is damned lucky to have someone of your quality, that's why. Sherlock is no idiot.'

John's unexpected compliment made him flush uncomfortably and he pulled away with a shrug. Sherlock was not a chatty fellow especially about his past, so it was likely that John didn't know about the "mistake". The one which occurred around the same time he made Inspector, but which had sent Sherlock running back to the streets into the arms of the waiting drug pushers.

Greg let his face fall into his hands, wondering why he was dwelling on this again. He had never meant to hurt Sherlock. It wasn't in his nature to be deliberately cruel to anyone.

Yeesh, this feels like a life time ago.

'Hey, what's up?' John asked, tapping his shoulder with his, 'feeling okay?'

Sherlock's family had successfully managed to wash him out at a drugs clinic, and Greg had never been more grateful for anything in his entire life. He had been shocked though when Sherlock turned up at the Yard again, and started inquiring after new cases as though nothing had happened. The congratulations card the young man awkwardly deposited on his new shiny desk before he left, had made Lestrade want to throw up.

They weren't exactly friends to start with but their relationship after that had moved to strictly professional. It had been that way for Sherlock ever since with everyone. The consulting detective let no one in, not until the day John showed up.

'I am fine; just memories,' Greg rumbled looking up, 'stuff I don't want to remember.'

John nodded knowingly, having his own share of bad memories to wrestle into submission.

'Tell me a good one first,' John encouraged him in a murmur, 'might make the bad memory easier to share.'

Huh? That might work.

A good Sherlock story?

'About three months after we started collaborating,' Lestrade blurted out, struck by sudden inspiration, 'I had a domestic with the missus; a bad one. Went on a bender on that bar on Branston street. Woke up at three in the morning on Sherlock's sofa and he wouldn't let me leave. Kept trying to feed me chicken soup, as though I had a bloody cold. '

John snorted companionably picturing the scene in his mind.

Sherlock had been scared to see his policeman friend so incapacitated but never one to be tactful, he had truthfully stated that he had gotten accustomed to Lestrade and did not want to go though the tedious process of training a new person to work with.

Perhaps it was one of those moments where he had eyes yet he couldn't see, but matters are always annoyingly clearer in hindsight. He should have realised sooner that Sherlock always placed a higher value on the truth, no matter how painful it might be.

From day one, Sherlock's sandpaper personality had made him an outcast at the Yard, and Lestrade had found himself navigating a perfect fire storm of criticism and teasing. One Tuesday the Yard had been celebrating a big bust, one that the had lead to his eventual promotion, when some of the officers started to rag on Sherlock again. In the secret of his heart Lestrade agreed completely that Sherlock was an arrogant sod, but he never said so to the young man. Instead, he showered the boy with attention and praise, wanting to make full use of the genius who never wanted any money or credit for his deductions.

This duplicity of course was a grave error.

He didn't know how long Sherlock had stood in the shadows that day watching him say nothing, as the officers callously dissected his anatomy and sexuality, as though he was a rabid animal and not a human being. He almost choked on an olive when the young man stepped into the light. Flustered and upset that Sherlock had been spying on him, Lestrade had shouted at the boy to clear off. And run away Sherlock did, right back into the streets, devastated to discover he wasn't as special as the Inspector always made him out to be.

Sherlock was so young back then, struggling to prove himself to everyone; struggling to prove his worth even to himself. He was more brittle inside than the version John knew.

'You always had Sherlock's measure,' Lestrade remarked bitterly, 'I am glad he pursued your friendship.

John frowned, not liking the pinched look of pain on the other man's face. 'I think you lost me.'

'You tell him he's a wanker to his face, don't you?' Lestrade tried to explain. 'But behind his back, you have given him your loyalty. I should have done that. Why didn't I do that? It's all he ever wanted.'

'Well, he has my loyalty to a point,' John corrected him, after he took a moment to parse out the inspector's bewildering explanation.

Their eyes connected.

To a point, my ass. You would take a bullet for him, and I have nagging suspicion you have already killed a man so he could live.

For God's sake Lestrade, what an imagination you have! I would do no such thing.

The inspector raised an eyebrow, but let the unresolved matter drop. He swiveled sideways to straddle the bench and after a while, John followed suit.

'I made a mistake a long time ago,' Lestrade confessed to the doctor in a murmur, 'and I would pay good money if Sherlock doesn't remember that bit. I hurt him so badly.'

A shadow loomed above them and the men looked up.

The inspector's heart started to thunder in his chest like a run away train, as Sherlock's ice blue eyes narrowed into crystal shards of hard glass. The man's calculating expression pierced him all the way to the bone, making him shiver.

He never for a moment thought that Sherlock had ever forgiven his disloyalty. He sort of assumed he had deleted it or moved it to one side, to make room for fresh data.

'Remember something?' Lestrade finally managed to croak out.

'Quite the opposite, in fact,' Sherlock replied calmly, wiping his face with a towel, 'I recognize you from yesterday, but could you remind me of your name? Was it Gerry? Gary? Garfield? It's Garfield, right?'

John started to giggle manically at the pained expression on Lestrade's face.